Poison
by XPlainJaneX
Summary: he tastes so fine you never smell the odorless death laced between every swallow. It's only after you have taken a drink; after you let him take you, consume you, that you feel that toxic tremor across your lips. R&R! H/Hr... slight H/G
1. arsenic

**A/n: ok, I know, I know….OMG still isn't finished. well, damn... i haven't got a reason... uh... I'm not in the mood? :C Sorry. I like this story's mood though so I thought I might continue it. **

**Song to be played: Familiar Taste of Poison, by Halestorm**

He reminded her of arsenic.

Arsenic that had been subtly mixed into a parched man's favorite drink; he tastes so fine you never smell the odorless death laced between every swallow. It's only after you have taken a drink; after you let him take you, consume you, that you feel that toxic tremor across your lips.

She knew it was wrong, but with every taste she loses a little bit of care. She'd rather drown in his poison than breath in air lacking his intoxicating scent. And as his hands caress the skin just below the small of her back, she can't help but wonder if the torture was intentional; if he did such dangerous and delicious things, so close to prying eyes, just to watch her strain against the feeling of bliss for fear of having the person she was talking to notice what his hands were really were up to.

They were talking hairstyles of all things. She had made a wayward comment about her own curly monstrosity, not meaning anything by it, yet still he softly answered so only she could hear, _"I like curly hair, much more than plain old straight hair."_ And still his fingers kept on, even as more people joined the conversation. People they knew, people they loved.

If they noticed he would have to stop.

If he didn't stop they would notice.

Neither option is desirable, so she fights both, she fights a battle that can't be won and damns any thought that might lead to her rescue. She doesn't wish to be saved. _Taint me,_ her heart whispers. _Blacken me with your very being, so long as it is you_.

His fingers move from soft caresses to entrancing designs, of what she isn't sure, but she arches into the touch as subtly as she can regardless.

Her eyes drift close and she remembers a similar caress from only hours before. Their stance was almost identical to the one they now stood in now. Her mind can't help but to go back to that place and soon, everyone else recedes...

His hands are stopping their maddening trails and reaching for her own. He is tugging her away from them, they who know nothing of his lethal taste, and is leading her to the seclusion of his bedroom. The darkness of the room swallows nearly every feature they possess, save for the glint of light that reflects from the crack in the door off his glasses. She can see his eyes clearly as they rake across her face, as they fall in half-lidded daze. She can hear when his mouths falls open and he begins to breath heavier, brushing his sweet breath across her skin like an artist to a canvas.

His hands are at her hips, circling, gripping, owning, numbing. The marks of his need will be there tomorrow, imprints bruised on her skin just as he is seared into her soul. And his lips are at her ear whispering words so much more harmful than his hands. The hope he gives is painful.

He's closer now, if that was possible, lips scorching his words into her skin, ghosting hope down her jaw line and across her collar bone.

"_So beautiful… so sweet…"_ He is licking his lies now, his skillful mouth leaving marks so much further than skin deep. _"Need you 'Mione. Need you now."_

And then his hands are at her hem, tearing the cloth from her body, desperate for her skin against his own.

"_So soft, so round, so smooth,"_ his hands are grasping her breasts, which she readily arches into, _oh Merlin, the feeling of it!_ She cannot describe the pleasure of his touch, be it a brush of the hand, or this.

The aching is unbearable, this aching need for more. But it is nothing to what it will be later. For it is always so much worse when he left, when he… No! She won't think of that now. She will enjoy this drawn out death of hers, this pollution of her very soul.

And so she reaches for him in return, her hands moving from their position at her side, sliding beneath his shirt, gliding across his abs, and nails clawing up the skin of his back; drawing him closer, welcoming her destruction.

Worshipping her demolisher.

And then they were a fury of lips and teeth and tongue and burning. The inevitable burn that spreads throughout her body, driving her farther and farther until her skirt is somewhere around her waist and his jeans around his knees, her back against the door, legs wrapped around him. Yet, he hesitates, as he always does, because that is the most venomous part of this entire game: it is always _her_ choice.

But what choice does she really have? With _him_ pressed against her, teasing her flesh apart, silently reminding her of what is to come should she continue. Even now with him barely in her, the flames have started.

Turn him away? Ignore the burning?

It has ceased to be a choice since the first taste.

And so her hips are grinding down against his in encouragement and he is plunging into her, biting into her neck. She's clenching at his hair, mouth open wide with silent screams. His whispers are gone, replaced by the animalistic grunts escaping him with each divine thrust. And she's shivering, and buring, falling apart against him, and feeling the waves of bliss.

Of incandescence.

Then it ends. It's over fast, too fast for either of their liking, but they don't have the time to be slow. Yet still, as she loosens her fingers from his locks of hair, she slides her hand to his cheek and holds it there firmly. Because he has already ruined her, because he is her chosen poison, she tells him the truth.

"_I love you, Harry."_

His head reels back and anger fills his features and ruffles his brow. _"Are you listening to me, __Hermione__?"_

"_What?"_

"_I said are you listening to me Hermione? Honestly, it's not like I'm talking about quidditch…."_

And suddenly everything filters back into consciousness, the room full of friends and colleagues. Ron is across from her continuing the conversation she can't even remember at this point, and Harry, tracing nonsensically luscious patterns into the small of her back.

"Sorry."

"That's ok, 'Mione. You look at bit flushed, are you alright?"

Harry chuckles deeply and slides his hands a bit lower, forcing her reply to take a back seat to the sensation, but then she must answer.

If they notice, he'll have to stop.

But before she can reply there is a flash of green light in the fireplace and Ginny steps through. She makes her way over to the golden trio, firm athletic body displayed to its greatest advantage in her sleek black dress. She rushes over and greets everyone happily, but her attention is truly only for one.

"Hello Mr. Potter." Her voice purrs his name as Hermione's never dared.

"Hello, Mrs. Potter." He purrs back with deepening lust.

"Join me in the kitchen will you…" she trails off and walks ahead of him, straight hair swinging prettily behind her back.

And his touch is gone.

But his taint remains.

_He poisoned me_

_Heart, body and mind too_

_Yet she is the bullet _

_To end me, sure and true._

**A/n: ok, what do you think my lovelies? It's kinda depressing… but that will hopefully change. this is HHr. R/Hr does not exist... ever. it is wrong and should only be employed if the author intends to harm Ron afterward. same goes for G/H. And yes, I fully intend to damage her... repeatively.**


	2. on nights like this

**Song to be played: I hate everything about you By: Three Days Grace**

It is only ever on nights like this, when the sex was the type to cater to her needs and not his own, that he ponders idly at his marriage.

It is only ever on nights like this, when she is exhausted and falls quickly to sleep while he lies still but conscious, that the oddness in their relationship surfaces.

It is only ever on nights like this, that he finds himself wishing her long firm body was a bit more soft; a bit more petite. That her hip bones didn't jut out so much or that her hair wasn't so woefully flat.

It is only ever on nights like these, that his idle thoughts give way to the argument he once had with someone, he can't quite remember who about why he was uninterested in his wife prier to their relationship. The resemblance of his wife and the image he has made for himself of his mother in his head were uncomfortably similar. He cringes at the thought.

And so his mind takes a more pleasant route, to women he has known that bare no likeness to any female members of his family tree. First is usually Cho Chang… but her body was much like the one beside him and despite his earlier worship of said body, at the moment he can find no appealing thoughts toward it.

He concludes that it is softness that his mind is looking for, that feeling you get when you hug a soft pillow to your self as you fall asleep. His wife was not huggable pillow material—her hip bones were not the only bones to jut out and her muscles while aesthetically pleasing were lacking that layer of body fat that cushioned their firm solidarity.

And so the thoughts of hugs lead him down memory lane to his very first. To Hermione.

Sweet, soft, beautiful Hermione.

And that is where his thoughts become lost. For the moment her image crosses his mind, the body next to his becomes decidedly wrong and he wonders once again at his marriage.

His mind becomes increasingly more alert as his thoughts travel over the Hermione in his minds eye, the one he has spread out upon his bed underneath him. Her luscious curls fanned out across her pillow like a riotous halo, her cheeks flushed with anticipation, with passion, and her smooth curvy body trembling with need. The image in his fantasy is so real, almost like a memory.

And that gets him wondering even more.

It was only ever on nights like this that he feels such confusing hatred toward the love of his life. Thoughts of another eat him alive and he hates her for it. Why was his wife not the one he longed for? In the light of day it was never this confusing. He fixated on his wife whenever she entered a room forgetting everything but her… that was love wasn't it? That meant he loved and wanted her, didn't it?

So why was it that late at night when she was fast asleep beside him, that he felt so alone? So cold? He never felt this way when he lay next to Hermi…

…_When did I lay next to Hermione?_

The familiar image of the Hermione of his fantasies envelopes him and he wonders at its realness. That is what disturbs him most of all. Sometimes when his wife is not near and his mind is idle he feels a phantom pain in his chest, a sort of longing that his mottled mind cannot define.

Most of the time he brushes it off as caffeine withdrawal, for these are more often than not the days he doesn't drink the coffee his wife usually has so wonderfully waiting for him when he wakes up.

But on nights like this…

The pain of longing is laced with a crippling sense of remorse. For what he should be remorseful for he isn't sure. It is a feeling only the image of Hermione can induce, but for the life of him he cannot decipher why!

He could no longer take the feeling of it; it made him flinch at the very presence of his wife. Somehow she was the reason of his guilt and regret.

Her presence was_ wrong._

So he leaves his bed and heads for the loo, he just wants a minute without this feeling, a minute away from her body so close and confusing.

He leans against the counter top of the vanity and sighs. It is a sound of defeat and hopelessness. He lifts his head to peer at himself in the mirror examining his look of sadness and tried to understand what every part of him except his mind knew and was trying to tell him.

His brows furrow when he spies a light bruise at the base of his neck. He stands up straighter to get a better look at the mark, so obviously a love bite, and wonders at its origin. His wife had not giving it, tonight she had insisted be about her.

But it was fresh and new; only starting to darken properly.

This curiosity prompted him to turn and view the rest of himself and again his found a foreign mark; recently carved finger nail trails graced his back. He leaned once again on the vanity, deep in thought. What had gone on tonight? He mentally works his way back through his evening.

Before the loo he was in bed thinking, before that he was in bed letting his wife do the thinking for both of them. Before that he was waiting for his wife to say goodbye to the guests they had over in as a celebration for Ron's promotion. Before that he was in the kitchen being persuaded by his wife to allow said previously stated event to occur. Before that he had greeted her when she had arrived late from work. But before that, what had gone on? He had to have doing _something! _

Again his mind flashed to Hermione, but a different image than his usual spread out and wanting fantasy image. This one was needier and sadder somehow. Her lips were bruised, skin flushed with exertion, hair tousled, expression… desperate. She was holding his face so close to her own and whispering words.

Such sweet words..._ I love you, Harry._

The image clears and he is dazed. _What…?_

It was only ever on nights like this that he knew of his love for his best friend and the pain of what he was doing to her. But he acknowledged that not everything was adding up and so he marched out of the loo toward his bedroom where the _thing_ that presented the most problem lay asleep. When he got there she was not. He turned to search in another room, he would find her and…

It was only ever on nights like this that Ginny Potter wondered when she would get to stop this nonsense of obliverating her husband.

It was only ever on nights like this that she ponders just what would happen is she stopped making his special morning 'coffee'.

It was only ever on nights like this, when her husband was dazed and drowsy with confusion, that her husband held her close in his sleep and he didn't call out another's name.

**A/N: well that took an interesting turn… hmm… I don't know I kind of like it…. Hmmmm… so do you want more?**


	3. water and tears

**A/N: ok so I marked it complete and then started a new one and then chose to ignore everything. What can I say life happens. But while trying to muse on smiling gently I kept thinking of this so there you go. Another chapter with an ending that demands more to come. Just no promises on how long it's gonna take, classes do start in a month.**

**Song to be played: Missing By Flyleaf**

If she ever lets the tears fall after a night with him, she'll never admit it. Because it's only after she has been standing beneath the hot shower long enough to let the water wash away her self made sins, that she lets down her guard, brick by brick, and by then she isn't sure if it's tears or just the water from her shower.

The water is a contradictory thing. It wraps around her skin much like his caress, but it doesn't bother to burn, when it can sear—it paints red molten patches across her body, making every nerve, every cell, feel like it has been super imposed and raked raw. And yet she needs it to rid herself of his touch, she knows no other way of getting him off her than to scrub every cell he touched down the drain.

But she still feels it.

That twisted dirty feeling, that always leaves her hallow. It is a feeling that can only catches her at the odds of moments. An accidental brush of her hand, a droplet of water making a noticeably intimate glide across her skin—things she can not prepare for, at just the right pressure, in just the right place, that lead to visions of heat and passion and joy, of Harry, to flounce through her head.

It makes her shiver. With glee or terror she isn't yet sure.

Because soon to follow those joyous musings, are thoughts of how it went from her by Harry's side to _her_.

It had only been a small fight before she left. She hadn't understood why he hadn't sent letters or called or anything. At first she blamed it on the owls; Australia is pretty far away after all maybe they got lost? But then Molly's letter arrived, then Ron's, and _her's_, so why not his?

She had had good reason for not wanting him to go with her.

A) If The-Boy-Who-Defeated were to not be around to help with the aftermath that could cause serious issues, even as just a figurehead, Harry was important.

B) she didn't want him there when she explained to her parents what and who her involvement in the war had been about. So he sulked and pouted before she left and ignored her while she was gone, but that was fine. That was slightly normal.

Hermione Granger is often ignored.

She had been so excited to return home. Her parents reawakening hadn't gone well. They need 'time' to adjust. So after weeks of searching, and finding and awakening, and explaining, she was returning home to her happiness, to Harry.

Grimmauld Place was full, everyone happy to see her, hugs and drinks of celebration passed around. "Oh Hermione, you'll never guess!" _She _exclaimed by her side, "Harry proposed!"

She should have just apparated to the middle of the ocean and drowned. It would have been so much faster than this slow death everyone seemed to wish to inflect on her. Not one person in that house seemed to care or realize that this might hurt her. It may not have been common knowledge, but select friends and family knew. So why were they all bobbing their heads enthusiastically and proclaiming how they always knew it would happen? Why were they so cruel?

Their once was relationship is still never mentioned, never slipped into the thoughts of anyone, but probably herself. Bit by bit a little piece of her soul is cracked and shattered. Bit by bit her eyes dull and her skin pales. Bit by bit she pines for a married man, who continually uses and discards and then forgets her. Her life is pathetic. And yet so like what everyone who ever hated her said it would be. She wonders ideally if Snape would have ever been this cruel. No, he would have brought it up on every occasion just to demonstrate yet another flaw in Harry's character. And her own. And probably _her's _as well.

This direction of thoughts never ends well. Hell, they never end. For such a brilliant, strong, women, she is so horridly stupid when it comes to the people she loves.

Love is not blind despite how many will try to persuade you. It is merely selectively ignorant. People in love with vapid bimbos can clearly see that they haven't two brain cells to rub together the first time they meet them. But they chose to ignore it. And when Hermione sees her friends and loved ones neglect her and use her and mistreat she ignores it. Because she loves them, because deep down they love her too… right?

And as she drags herself from the shower stall to her vanity in her bedroom, dripping water and possibly tears across her floors, she sits with no mind of the rush of cold air across her skin, nor the involuntary chattering of her teeth.

She gazes at the woman she has become. The type of woman she has always despised. To love another's husband is pitiful, sad even. To engage another's husband is sick, dirty, filthy.

Filthy, lying, cheating, dirty little mudblood.

Prehasps she should have died in war.

Been a true hero.

Prehasps she should have just 'accidentally' killed _her_ in the final battle. No one would have noticed she had done it. It was such a confusing time… perhaps if she still had that time turner…

But no. these thoughts just proved how bad she was, no matter their appeal. Had Harry wanted her, he would be here and not curled up beside _her_.

She looks at the figure in her reflection again. She does not want to own it as her own. how many nights has she been driven to this? She can not find and exact number and it chills her.

What has she become?

She wishes to stop this madness; to find an antidote to her own particular brand of poison. But so entrenched in her own need and decay she can not concoct a solution. So slowly she reaches for that and parchment that are never too far away she begins to pen a letter to the only person able to create such an elixir.

_Dear Professor Snape…_

* * *

**_cliffy much? ;D_**


	4. sober the fuck up

**A/N: yeah this is a necessary filler… I find it quiet entertaining actually, but I really did need it so the next chapter made sense. Kind of short though huh? **

**Song To Be Played: Me and My Girl by: Theory of a DeadMan**

KNOCK KNOCK KNCOK!

Someone was at the door.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

And they really wanted to come in.

But Harry didn't partially care. His wife was late to dinner, _again_, and it had put him in a right fowl mood. Come tomorrow he will probably forget his anger with her as he usually did, but at the moment he was clinging to it fiercely. It felt right to be angry with her. It felt _good._ And damn, it was doing things for his memory, because Harry could suddenly remember many other days when his 'loving' wife was late coming home or did not come home at all. Meals gone cold and nights of an empty bed suddenly floated to the surface of his thoughts. However it was not helping that he was currently seated at the table of the latest ruined meal. It mocking in its presence, but he wanted to be damn sure he was here when she came waltzing in. So he stayed in the house, in kitchen…In the house.

He hated the house. Grimmauld Place held too many memories, too many ghosts for him to enjoy it. But Ginny had _insisted _on living there, it was a manor of sorts after all. But even with all the frilly pillows and gold lamps Ginny had _insisted_ on filling it with, it wasn't home. He didn't like it. He didn't want any of it.

Although she did fill it with whiskey too, so maybe he shouldn't be too mad. Harry glanced at the table again cold food and melted candles in all their glory. He incinerated everything but the table itself.

Harry was very angry indeed.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

Sigh…

But Harry did not want to take his anger out on whoever was on the other side of that door. He wanted to take it out on his wife. He wanted to yell and throw things and interrogate and get some bloody answers! But what he did not want to do was deal with whoever was on the other side of that door. But more importantly than that, he was drunk off his arse and didn't want to bother staggering to the door.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

Persistent bastards.

Harry sluggishly made his way to the door, nursing his almost empty glass of fire whiskey and making a mental note to get some more on his trip back from telling the prat at the door to sod off.

"Hello, Mr. Potter." A dark hiss floated to his ears.

Damn. It was Snape. Even he could not tell Snape to sod off… to his face. Especially when he was drunk and couldn't retrieve his wand in the time it would take the dungeon bat to remove his balls and transfigure them into a new pair of earrings for Ginny.

"What ya be wantin' Snape." Alright maybe he didn't need the refill.

"Is Miss Weasley in at the moment?"

"Nope." He didn't bother to try and correct him on the whole Ginny being a Potter now thing. She did that enough for the both of them and frankly, at the moment he wasn't exactly proud to be a husband.

Apparently, that was the password though, because as soon as the words were out of his mouth the bat had moved swiftly from the door to the kitchen and started to open cabinets and draws and such, muttering to him the entire time. He would pull out a spice here or there, an herb from this self, an essence of whatever from that. Had a right nice little stock pile going too.

"Plan on making yer'self a beauty cream with that batty?" Snape slowly turned his gaze on him and assessed the situation as quickly as possible. "Cause I'm not so sure even magic can help that mug"

"You're drunk."

"Ay, but I'm pretty."

There was a silence after that. And Snape began the process of opening cabinets once again, but this time with more fever. He seemed to find what he was looking for in time and handed a bottle to Harry, who squinted at the bottle for a good long moment before refusing. He was perfectly happy to stay intoxicated thank you very much and he told old batty so.

"Potter if you do not take that potion right this instant and sober the fuck up, I will personally be here to make sure you have the worse hangover of your life without reprieve. Do you understand?"

Harry was still kind of in shock over his former professor using the word fuck… but he drank it anyway.

The result was instantaneous. Harry straightened his posture and narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing here?" he hissed.

Nodding in satisfaction Severus whipped his dark hair around as he turned back to the pile of ingredients he had amassed on the counter top and gestured for Harry to take a seat.

Harry refused. "What is this all about Snape?"

"Do you have any particular habits that are so predictable that they reach the point of certainty? " Severus questioned instead. "Who prepares your food? Your drinks? Are there substances that you consume that your _wife_ does not?"

"What the bloody FUCK, you intrusive bastard, are you playing at?"

Severus let out a controlled sigh, but his patience was wearing thin and his anger barely contained and he was simply ready to be done the whole bloody thing. "I am trying," he gritted out between his teeth as glared and sneered at the boy who lived, "to give you the benefit of the doubt and understand that you are not only you father's son and that there is another possibility as to why you have driven an extraordinary young woman to the point of no return. I am trying, very, very hard to not kill you where you stand. So please a little assistance would be nice."

Harry paled at the thoughts that were swirling through his head. Is that why Ginny hadn't come home? Had she thought h had done something? Was that Skeeter bitch writing nonsense again? Before he could stop himself, his mouth had runaway on him and he began to voice those thoughts.

"What's wrong? Is it Ginny? Is she hurt? In pain? Wher—SHUT UP!" Snape had had enough of his useless drivel.

"I was not speaking of the Weasley girl. I was speaking of Miss Granger." At Harry's confused stare he carried on, "Have you no comprehension of what you have done? No? Sit and you shall see."

Harry sat at the table in the home that was never really his home and stare into his professor's eyes. And in them he saw.

He saw himself destroy his only real home.

_Hermione._

* * *

**A/N: So should I bother to keep going or do you guys think it is time to call it quits and focus on something else?**


End file.
